


If You Need A Little Sunshine

by PieceOfCait



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A fine smattering of probably-unrequited ExR because I can't help myself, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, First Kiss, Les Mis Holiday Exchange 2018, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Triumvirate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 14:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16997127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait
Summary: The revolution looms and Paris is crawling with National Guardsmen.Les Amis are desperate to move their extra munitions to where the barricades will rise, but have no discrete means for transport.Lucky for them, Courf is more than just a pretty face.He’s an ideas man.





	If You Need A Little Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writelights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writelights/gifts).



> Merry Ficmas! And a happy Les Amis Holiday Exchange to all! 
> 
> The request I received was: “A canon era/canon compliant fic about Jehan and Courfeyrac. Can be about whatever you like as long as it fits in that category.”
> 
> I’m fairly terrible at ever finishing fics, so while this may be a touch rough around the edges, it’s nice to actually have something to post on my account!
> 
> Big thanks to Shitpostingfromthebarricade for beta-ing this for me!

He’d meant it as a joke.

Truly. With Combeferre wringing his hands over their pittance of stocked ammunition and Enjolras foaming at the mouth over the smothering presence of National Guardsmen throughout the arrondissement, Courfeyrac had been seeking to ease the tension. He never thought they’d take him as _serious_.

“You’re frowning again.” Jehan says, adjusting his neckline, “Keep it up and I fear the worry lines may never leave.”

“I think they’d give me a dignified air, don’t you?” Courfeyrac forces his frown into a smirk and pushes away from the wall. “Need help?”

“I don’t think the world is ready for a dignified de Courfeyrac, mon Cheri.” Jehan’s gaze flits to meet him in the mirror with a wicked grin and an arched eyebrow, “Lace me up?”

A static sensation works its way up Courfeyrac’s spine as he moves to Jehan’s back. “It’s almost shocking, you know,” he murmurs as he pulls the corset strings taut, “how well this fits you.

“Indeed,” Jehan’s voice was tighter, “Musichetta said she hasn’t worn it since she finished her schooling. Thank the gods her curves took their time.”

Jehan gasps and Courfeyrac slackens his grip, “Too tight?”

“It’s fine. You’re quite efficient, I’d have assumed you’d be unaccustomed to doing these things _up_.”

Courfeyrac scoffs, tying the strings off, “Truly? You’re going to besmirch my character while dressed in women’s underclothes?”

“It’s hardly my fault that your character invites such frequent besmirching,” Jehan’s expression is catlike as he spins to face Courfeyrac, hands touching at his cinched waist, “And need I remind you, Monsieur, that this was _your_ idea?”

  

* * *

 

 

_“They wouldn’t look twice if we were women,” he’d said, swigging from his almost-emptied tankard, “We could waltz along the banks of the Seine in broad daylight without raising an eyebrow.”_

_His two closest comrades had ceased their manic scrawling at his statement._

_“Well, you might, Enj,” Courfeyrac conceded with a wink, angling for a laugh, or at the very least a tight smile, “but Ferre and I would make for average looking women on our best days. Say, how much gunpowder do you wager would fit in a gigot?”_

_“It’s… not a terrible idea.” Combeferre had said instead of laughing, facing Enjolras again._

_“What?” Courfeyrac had choked on the dregs of his drink._

_“It’s our best option,” Enjolras agreed in a low voice, “We don’t have the luxury of time, we need those munitions moved as soon as we can.”_

_Courfeyrac sat in mild horror as discussion delved into the logistics of which Amis would be best suited to the task._

_“You’d be too easily recognised,” Combeferre said to Enjolras, scrawling down names of potential candidates, “Any guardsman from last month’s demonstration would know you in an instant.”_

_“You’re too tall.” Enjolras noted, “It draws attention. You’d be recognised almost as fast as myself. Courfeyrac?”_

_Courfeyrac swallowed thickly at his sudden involvement in his friends’ folie-a-deux, “You can’t be serious. I was_ joking _.”_

_“Whoever we send will need a chauffeur,” Combeferre said, ignoring him, “I feel Courfeyrac is better suited to that task.”_

_Enjolras frowned at Combeferre’s near-indecipherable list, “Bahorel and Feuilly couldn’t. Even if we found gowns to fit them they’d never pass as women.”_

_“You’ve honestly lost your minds,” Courfeyrac breathed, “You’ve not even finished your wine and you’re speaking nonsense.”_

_“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras snapped his gaze to him with mild irritation marring his brow, “We’ve been running in circles for_ days _searching for a solution like this. I know you meant it in jest, but that doesn’t mean it won’t work.”_

_Courfeyrac raised both his hands and his eyebrows in defeat. Even the sun couldn’t hold its place in the sky if Enjolras told it to move in that tone._

_Appeased, Enjolras spun back to Combeferre. “Joly has an agreeable build-“_

_“Though not the strength to carry sufficient supplies.” Combeferre ran his pen through the name, “Bossuet would be… inadvisable.”_

_“Agreed.” Enjolras’ jaw tensed as the list of candidates dwindled. He looked up to find Combeferre watching him intently. Enjolras frowned, “No.”_

_Courfeyrac squinted at the barely-legible lines of Combeferre’s penmanship, “Who?”_

_“He’d do it.” Combeferre pressed, “If you asked, he’d do it.”_

_“Oh.” Realisation dawned, “He would. He’d pass well enough with a shave.”_

_“_ No. _” Enjolras’ scowl deepened, “I can’t fathom why you wrote his name down in the first place.”_

_“You can’t hold those dominoes against him forever, Enjolras.” Combeferre sighed with the air of a man tired of pressing the matter._

_Enjolras glared with the energy of a man willing to test that theory, “This is too important. I won’t risk it.”_

_“That leaves us one option.” Combeferre squinted at his list._

_Courfeyrac’s wine-warmed stomach roiled._

  

* * *

 

 

“Don’t you have a nose to be powdering?” Courfeyrac teases, partly to change the topic and partly because their window of opportunity was rapidly nearing.

“Yes, yes,” smiles Jehan, voice still wearing a distinct edge of breathlessness, “I’d be finished if you’d care to stop distracting me. Go see how the others are handling their restlessness, I’ll be out soon.”

“As you wish, darling.” Courfeyrac bows deeply before sending Jehan a quick wink and heading for the front room of Enjolras and Combeferre’s shared lodgings.

The two in question were stood shoulder to shoulder at the table, pouring over a map pinned down by comically large books. They both snap their focus to Courfeyrac as he enters.

“Is he ready?” Enjolras asks without preamble.

“Nearly.” Courfeyrac responds, nerves springing back to life at his friend’s severe expression.

“It’s almost time-“

“He knows, Enj. Be easy.” Courfeyrac summons a tight smile and collects his coat.

A tense silence settles over the room; Enjolras staring hard enough to scorch the map, Combeferre readying his pipe, and Courfeyrac pulling at a loose thread on his sleeve.

At the sound of the door all three jolt.

“Passable?” Jehan asks the stunned trio. They blink in unison.

A glimpse of Jehan’s auburn hair is visible under the brim of the bonnet he wears. The cream colouring of the dress ties in with his pale complexion and highlights the scattering of freckles creeping up his neck. His waist – finished with a wide belt – is dwarfed by the overlarge gigot sleeves and excess of petticoats.

He wears rouge on his cheeks and powder on his nose, and Courfeyrac knows it’s Jehan, he does – he’d know those eyes and that soft smile even if he were struck blind – but the transformation is-

“Incredible.” he breathes, and Jehan’s shoulders relax at last.

“This is _fantastic_ ,” Enjolras beams, striding forward and taking hold of Jehan’s shoulders for closer inspection. “Truly, Prouvaire, this is better than I’d allowed myself to hope.”

Combeferre also nears, scrutinising the hem of the neckline, “Chetta mentioned she’d made some adjustments?”

Jehan’s grin grew, eyes flashing to Courfeyrac before hiking his skirt up, “It’s essentially a rather remarkable set of pockets that doubles as a dress. I could fit a keg worth of gunpowder in the petticoat alone.”

“You see Courf? _Fantastic.”_ Enjolras repeats, manic glint burning brightly in his eye as he spins back to the table.

Jehan fiddles with his gloves as the group goes over the planned route a final time. Bahorel and Grantaire are each expected to be milling about separately along the way ready to step in should trouble arise - even if the latter does earn a scoff from the blond.

Feuilly will be at the house holding the munitions. It isn’t far, and they’d picked this particular time of day for the decreased guard presence. There’s every opportunity that they won’t see a single officer, as Combeferre points out for the third time.

“Be safe,” Ferre says to Jehan, then turns to Courfeyrac, “Be _discrete_.”

“I’m not sure I know how,” Courfeyrac replies with a wink, then offers Jehan his arm with a small bow, “Shall we dance?”

  

* * *

 

 

“What did Enjolras mean?” Jehan queries not twenty paces out the door.

“Which part?” Courfeyrac asks. Enjolras means a lot of things, and tends to say most of them.

“ _’You see Courf’_? What do you see?”

“I… see a delightful young woman out for an afternoon stroll."

Jehan frowns, though with his reddened lips it’s more of a pout, “Did you not have faith I could do this?”

“Ah,” Courfeyrac realises what has caused Jehan’s brow to furrow, “Sweet Prouvaire, it was never _you_ that I doubted. More, the scheme itself.”

“It’s a good plan.”

“That began as a drunk joke.” Courfeyrac squeezes Jehan’s wrist where his hand sits, “You look astounding, Jehan. You’ve given me faith.”

“You’re still incredibly tense."

“And I’m afraid I will remain so until we are through with our little adventure.” Courfeyrac glances behind them under the guise of adjusting his hat. “Even the prettiest girls in Paris aren’t exempt from a Guard’s interrogation.”

“True. In that circumstance I may have to utilise my womanly charms.” Jehan fans at himself while swooning against Courfeyrac’s side. Courfeyrac laughs, feeling some of his nerves loosen their grip on his shoulders.

They carry on in silence for a ways. The mid-afternoon sun is warmer than they anticipated, and as the first prickle of sweat creeps up Courfeyrac’s brow he wonders how Jehan must feel underneath his many layers.

It’s a train of thought he quickly abandons.

Jehan’s arm tenses, and Courfeyrac panics for a moment that he’d spoken aloud before trailing his gaze to find four guardsmen turning on to their street.

“Breathe, darling,” Courfeyrac pins his brightest smile on, “As far as they expect, I’m wooing you.”

“If this is how you woo women I feel deeply sad for them.” Jehan pulls his gaze away from the guards to smile fondly at Courfeyrac.

“Nothing gets the blood pumping like a light spot of treason, my dear,” Courfeyrac all but whispers, earning a convincing giggle from Jehan, “Do none of your novels agree?”

“It appears I am reading the wrong novels.”

Courfeyrac keeps the conversation on fiction as the guards draw closer. Each of them spare a glance for the young couple, but no one breaks their stride.

There is a shared breath of relief as Jehan leads the way around the far corner of the block to meet the banks of the Seine.

“Oh!” He whispers, inclining his head toward a figure halfway up the street, “There’s Grantaire.”

“So it is,” Courfeyrac breathes easier, then adds with a smirk, “Enjolras will be furious.”

“Enjolras _told_ him to be here.”

“And then assumed he wouldn’t show. You know he hates to be proved wrong."

“Grantaire lives to be contrary.”

They draw nearer and Grantaire glances up from his book to send them the smallest of nods, face pulling into a poorly concealed grin as his eyes return to his page.

“It appears he approves.” Jehan murmurs, “I’m beginning to think you all prefer me in a dress.”

“You know that’s not true,” Courfeyrac begins, before noting Jehan’s growing smile. “Are we giving you a complex?”

“I’m just making an observation,” Jehan can’t hide the hint of a laugh tinting his voice, “Name one other instance in which Enjolras has described an actual living person as ‘ _fantastic.’_ I’ll wait.”

Courfeyrac snorts, making a show of thinking hard before exclaiming “Oh! I’ve got one! Just last week he said Grantaire was fantastic.”

“That is quite possibly the boldest lie you’ve ever told.”

“Well, _fantastic_ ally frustrating,” Courfeyrac concedes as Jehan leans heavy on him in a fresh wave of giggles.

They walk further. Two blocks on they glimpse Bahorel talking to two other men. He, like Grantaire, doesn’t properly acknowledge them, but a sly wink is enough to know they’ve been noticed.

“It should be just after that lamp post.” Courfeyrac murmurs, having talked the route through thoroughly with Enjolras the night before. Jehan draws himself up with a small nod and they march on.

The house itself looks not dissimilar to every other on the street. They might have walked straight passed it, had it not been for Feuilly’s workman cap hung casually on the door handle.

Courfeyrac knocks.

Feuilly opens the door with a broad smile, “My friends! How good to see you! Come in, come in."

Jehan slips in, closely followed by Courfeyrac as Feuilly does a quick scan of the street before closing and locking the door.

“You made good time.” he notes, indicating the coat rack to Courfeyrac and approaching Jehan.

“It was a remarkably uneventful walk, all things considered,” Jehan notes.

Courfeyrac laughs, “That was the easy part.”

“Prouvaire, you are a sight to behold,” Feuilly exclaims, a look of wonder painted across his features. “You need a fan. Remind me.”

He offers his arm to Jehan as he guides them further into the house, “Claude operates from the back room.”

“How do you know Claude?” Courfeyrac asks, eyeing the blacked out windows.

“We worked together on the docks a few months ago.”

“So he’s a friend of yours?” Jehan queries.

“He’s a friend of the People.” Feuilly winks, opening a door to reveal an older man digging small boxes out of a trunk.

“You’re early,” the man grunts, “Looks eager. Most would charge you double for that.”

Courfeyrac and Jehan share a look as Feuilly chuckles. “Claude has been giving me pointers on the finer points of illegal arms deals for the last hour."

Nodding, Courfeyrac turns his attention to the room at large. There are several trunks against the far wall with some kegs stacked atop them.

“Powders in the kegs, got bags you can fill in here somewhere,” Claude grumbles, returning to his trunk-rifling, “Ah! Got em!”

Claude and Feuilly ease the lid off of the nearest keg and begin to fill the small bags as Courfeyrac undoes the back of Jehan’s dress enough for him to bunch it down around his waist. He stifles a laugh at Claude’s double take as Jehan pulls the feather-filled stuffing from the chest of his undergarments and eases the sleeve plumpers down his arms. 

Between the four of them it doesn’t take long to empty most of the keg into the many pocketed and padded facets of Musichetta’s altered dress. Claude produces several boxes of empty bullet shells that they pack evenly around the higher pockets in the petticoat.

“You ok?” Courfeyrac asks quietly as Claude moves to the large wardrobe in the room.

“Perfect.” Jehan replies. His makeup is showing signs of wear but his expression is resolute.

“Three pistols, and then you’re set.” Claude says, pulling open the door of the cupboard to reveal an array of rifles, pistols, and… walking sticks?

Courfeyrac can’t help himself, “Ah yes, unlawful trade. Catering to the needs of revolutionaries, criminals and… the geriatric?”

Claude follows his gaze before grunting out “They’re swords.”

“Come again?” Courfeyrac asks, clearly having misheard.

“I didn’t believe it either,” Feuilly picks up the nearest cane and throws it to Courfeyrac. “Give the handle a twist.”

He does, and when it clicks and slides to reveal a very real and very sharp concealed blade, Courfeyrac has to count to ten before he can risk speaking without squeaking. “Tell me we included some of these in our request.”

Jehan has to brace himself against the side of the cabinet to keep standing through his quiet fit of laughter.

“Tell you what,” says Claude, “Take one on the house.”

“Truly?” Courfeyrac’s voice drops to a revered whisper.

“Truly.” Claude reveals his crooked teeth with an attempt at a grin. “Death to the King.”

 

* * *

 

After assisting Jehan in redressing and helping to smooth out any unnatural lumps now present in his dress, the two find themselves bidding farewell to Feuilly and Claude as they take to the street once more.

It is somehow even warmer. Courfeyrac can’t help the worried glances he keeps shooting at Jehan, whose breathing has become noticeably laboured. He must be carrying over thirty extra pounds of munitions.

They walk as fast as they dare, reaching Bahorel in minutes. The other men have left, which frees Bahorel up to subtly inform them that there is a distinct clinking sound coming from Jehan’s skirts.

“The bullet casings.” Jehan has sweat trickling down his neck as he and Courfeyrac share a nervous look.

“If you’ve gotta drop em, you’ve gotta drop em.” Bahorel frowns, eyeing off a pair of Guards coming around the far corner of the block, “God, this place is _crawling_ today.”

He bids them farewell as he moves towards the Guards, an intricate and verbose question to pose them being formed under his breath.

Courfeyrac grips Jehan’s arm tighter and leads them in the opposite direction. He guides them to the shadows when he can, but as they reach the stretch of street that Grantaire is on the angle of the sun leaves nothing sheltered. Jehan tugs at the ties of his bonnet.

“We’re almost there-“

“Courf-“ Jehan gasps.

Courfeyrac raises his gaze to spot _more_ Guards coming up from the stairway to the Seine, muttering “Christ.”

“Courfeyrac-“ Jehan repeats, clutching desperately at his arm.

“I know Jehan, I see them too.”

“No- _Courf-_ “ Jehan falls. His chest is heaving as Courfeyrac catches him by the shoulders and swings him up against the nearby wall in a smooth motion.

There’s no way they could have escaped notice by the guards with such a sudden action. Courfeyrac’s brain is racing, Jehan blinks his wide eyes up at him before Courfeyrac shrugs, smiles, and does the only thing he can think of to try and avoid questioning - he kisses him soundly.

Jehan is still gasping, but his hands stop their manic clawing at his chest and instead take a tight hold of his lapels, moving his mouth against Courfeyrac’s in a much better kiss than Courfeyrac had been prepared for.

The footsteps of the guards slow, Courfeyrac kisses Jehan harder, willing his eyes to stay closed.

There’s a sudden cacophony of sound; crashing, thunking, screaming.

Courfeyrac jolts, his teeth clanking painfully against Jehan’s as he moves to shield him whatever is happening.

One of the Guards yell “Oi!”

Jehan’s grip is vicelike on Courfeyrac’s arms as they turn to face the officers, but the officers are moving away from them, towards the mouth of an alley where a large puddle is appearing. There’s a shrill whistle, and everyone on the street lifts their gaze to find a young blond boy leant precariously far over a balcony. Gavroche sends a gap-toothed smile and a lazy salute to the men in uniform, before scrambling up the short distance to the roof and racing out of view.

The guards give chase.

“We need to move.” Grantaire appears at Courfeyrac’s shoulder, offering a hand to Jehan, “Before any more guards show up. That was a one-time distraction.”

“You did that?” Jehan pulls at his bonnet tie, eyes flicking to Courfeyrac, lips far too red.

“I asked Gav if he was available,” R replies with a shrug, “He did the rest.”

“Thank you, R,” Courfeyrac says softly, taking Jehan’s free arm to steady him as they move quickly along the street.

“Gotta make sure you kids get home safe.” R smiles tightly, eyes casting around, no doubt on the lookout for more blue uniforms. “Should we loosen your corset? While the street is empty?"

Jehan shakes his head, “There’s too much held in place we’ll risk losing. We’re almost home, I’ll manage.”

They walk on in silence. Courfeyrac can’t stop the glances he sends Jehan, partly in worry about his still gasping breaths and partly in apprehension about the conversation they’ll be sure to have once alone again.

They should have spoken about it before ever setting foot on the street. If it had been Grantaire in the dress Courfeyrac is certain that there would have been hours of discussion around distraction tactics involving tongues. But he and Jehan had never broached the subject.

He doesn’t spend long ruminating on it though, as another pair of Guards appear, eyeing the trio suspiciously.

“There’s a knife tucked in the back of my belt,” Jehan murmurs, earning sharp looks from either side, “If you need it.”

Jehan keeps his head lowered, half hidden by his bonnet, as the Guards approach them.

“Afternoon, Monsieurs,” the taller of the two says. “What appears to be the problem with our young Mademoiselle?”

“A misread of the weather, officers.” Courfeyrac tamps down the fear coiling in his stomach and the loathing crawling up his throat, plastering on the most charming smile he can muster. “My darling and I left home early today, and did not count on it being quite so warm for the walk back. She’s feeling a little faint.”

The officers both turn their calculating eyes on R, who sends them a small, if forced, smile.

“Thankfully,” Courfeyrac continues, “We happened across a dear friend of ours, who has agreed to help us the rest of the way. It’s not very far from here.”

“It’s true, officers.” Jehan’s voiced is pitched higher, though not unnaturally so. “It’s kind of you to worry for me, but I assure you I couldn’t be in safer hands.”

The men hesitate a moment, before the moustached one nods. “Very well. Continue.”

The officers step aside and the trio steps forward, only for the nearest Guard to suddenly take hold of Courfeyrac’s arm, stopping them.

“What is that sound?” He asks, eyes flitting over Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac’s brain goes almost white with panic. “What sound?”

“That jingle,” the other officer says, hand moving slowly for the handle of his sword. “Like bells.”

Completely blanking on how to explain away the noise, Courfeyrac frowns in a considering manner as he subtly slides his fingers into Jehan’s belt, feeling for the handle of the blade.

Just as he grips it, R raises his hand with an easy smile.

“That would be me, officers.” He pulls at one side of his coat to show a series of pockets each holding a glass bottle or jar half filled with liquid.

The guards give the collection a severe onceover, until one asks “Liquor?”

“If only,” R laughs easily, as though their lives aren’t hinging on his words. “Turpentine.”

“What use have you for that?” the other questions, moustache twitching.

“I apprentice under Gros. I’ve stopped asking for the specifics.” R drops his grip on his coat, the jars rattle as it falls back into place. He rolls his eyes, “ _Artists_ , you know?"

Remarkably, the Guards seem appeased. They bid the group farewell again and the trio all but run to the next corner.

“Slow down,” Jehan begs once enough distance has passed. He glances at R, “I didn’t think you were still working for Gros?”

“Oh, I’m not,” R grins. “I dropped out months ago.”

“Ok.” Courfeyrac says after a short silence, “I feel it needs asking. _Why_ do you have a coat full of turpentine?”

“I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced the ungodly pain of turps in your eyes, Courf, but believe me when I say it’s a far more discrete weapon than a dress full of gunpowder,” he shifts his gaze with a shocked grin, “and a _dagger_ , Prouvaire.”

“It’s hardly a dagger.” Jehan rolls his eyes before laughing, “You should see Courf’s walking stick.”

Courfeyrac brandishes said stick as he excitedly whispers “I have a _sword cane_!”

R’s eyes flash wide at the words.

  

* * *

 

 

By some miracle they make it back to Enjolras and Combeferre’s lodgings without crossing paths with any more guardsmen.

Combeferre is quick to remove Jehan’s bonnet and cap the moment the door is closed, pressing a hand to his forehead and frowning.

“How was it?” Enjolras asks, eyes hesitating on R with a confused frown.

Courfeyrac shares a look with Jehan as he’s ushered from the room, before sarcastically answering “Remarkably uneventful.”

Grantaire snorts from where he remains hovering near the doorway. Enjolras’ frown morphs into a scowl.

“Really though, we wouldn’t have made it home without R.” Courfeyrac adds because Christ, those two are _impossible._

Enjolras’ apparent anger at the man becomes less heated. More introspective. R shuffles closer to the door.

“You should stay for supper,” Enjolras blurts, apparently taking even himself by surprise if the look on his face is anything to go by.

“Ah, no.” Grantaire grimaces through an attempt at a smile, his eyes don’t reach Enjolras’, “Thank you? I’m fine-“

“We need to discuss what happened. Your input could be… valuable.”

“I’m going to check on Jehan.” Courfeyrac announces loudly to the room before making a hasty retreat.

“You shouldn’t leave those two alone for long.” Jehan tells him as he enters the room. He is sat on the bed, his dress gone and his corset loosened to the point of hanging from him as he digs bullet shells out of the pockets in his lap.

“They’re adults,” Combeferre mumbles, taking notes of what Jehan is unpacking. “They can stay civil for five min-“

There’s a loud thump from outside the room followed by Enjolras’ raised voice and the deep murmur of Grantaire’s no doubt goading response.

“Christ have mercy,” Courfeyrac mutters. “I’m going to walk R home.”

“Wait,” Jehan calls as Courfeyrac moves to leave. Jehan flicks his gaze to Combeferre as a faint blush creeps up his neck, “I- when will I see you next?”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac fumbles, a small trickle of guilt running down his spine at the worried look on Jehan’s face. “Tonight. I’ll be right back once I’ve got Grantaire home."

Jehan ducks his head as he smiles, nodding to himself. “Good. Enjoy your walk.”

“Wish me luck!”

 

* * *

 

As he moves back to the front room he almost trips over a book laying face-down haphazardly in the doorway.

Enjolras is at the desk, knuckles white where he grips its edge, chest heaving and nostrils flaring. R remains in the doorway wearing a dangerous grin.

“Let’s get you home.” Courfeyrac says as he takes Grantaire’s arm and leads him quickly from the building.

R allows himself to be all but dragged, face darkening the moment the door closes behind them. His breathing is heavy as he remains uncharacteristically silent.

“Do I want to know what you said to him?” Courfeyrac prods quietly after they’ve travelled a few blocks.

Grantaire’s jaw muscle works for a moment before he takes a breath and says “I merely asked if he fancied a game of dominoes.”

“ _Taire_!” Courfeyrac near-shouts as he staggers to a halt.

R shrugs helplessly, turning backwards to face Courfeyrac as he continues walking, “I can’t help myself.”

Courfeyrac sighs heavily, stepping fast to catch up, “Christ, I don’t know if you’re brave or stupid.”

“I wager every franc I’ve ever earned on the latter,” R murmurs, eyebrows knitting together. “How could you possibly think me brave?”

“Most would agree it takes a particular brand of bravery to play with fire while wearing a suit filled with _turpentine_.”

R laughs, not his usual deep laugh that shakes the walls of the Musain; but a higher, thinner laugh. One poorly concealing something desperate.

“The risk is negligible, Courf. He’d have to touch me for it to catch alight-” He breaks off, shaking his head. His coat jingles. “How’s Prouvaire? Glad to be out of that corset?”

“Painfully blatant change of subject R,” Courfeyrac deflects. “I expected better.”

“I live to disappoint.” R bumps his shoulder against Courfeyrac.

“I think he’s happy to breathe freely again.” Courfeyrac shrugs.

“Did-“ Grantaire bites his tongue and winces, weighing his words before asking “You didn’t kiss him just because he was wearing a dress, right?”

Courfeyrac stumbles on the cobblestones trying to catch R’s eye, “I- You- I kissed him to try and avoid the guards.”

“That’s not what I-“ R cuts himself off again, glancing around the deserted street as they slow to a halt outside his lodgings. “It’s a terrible thing.”

Lead drops in Courfeyrac’s stomach at his words, “To kiss a man?”

R’s shoulders slump as he shakes his head and finally locks eyes with Courfeyrac, “To be afraid.”

“Grantaire-“ Courfeyrac breathes, pulling the taller man into a firm embrace despite his feeble protests.

R pats Courfeyrac on the shoulder as they separate. “You’re a braver man than most, I hope. Goodnight Courf.”

 

* * *

 

Combeferre hands Courfeyrac some bread as he re-hangs his coat by the door. Enjolras is lying slumped in an armchair, snoring lightly with his brow still furrowed. At least that’s one discussion that can wait until morning.

“How is he?” Courfeyrac asks around a mouthful, indicating their sleeping friend.

“Angry. And tired.” Ferre rubs at his eyes. “Though when is he not these days? How’s Grantaire?”

“Startlingly self-aware,” Courfeyrac concedes, still thrown by their brief discussion. Ferre raises a curious brow, but Courfeyrac shakes his head. “Is Jehan still here?”

Combeferre nods. “Enjolras’ room. He was sorting the casings last I looked in on him, but he may well be dozing now. I imagine the two of you had a rather eventful day.”

“That’s one word for it.” Courfeyrac yawns around another mouthful.

“You could stay the night here,” Ferre fights his own yawn, “Jehan too. You know Enjolras sleeps like the dead, he won’t wake in time to miss his bed before morning.”

“You truly are the wisest man I know, Combeferre."

Combeferre nods and begins putting out candles as Courfeyrac eases Enjolras’ bedroom door open. Jehan blinks owlishly up from where he’s reading a thin book and smiles tiredly.

“I was starting to wonder if you or Morpheus would greet me first,” he says, voice soft as he makes room on the bed for Courfeyrac to sit with him. A slow warm sensation washes over Courfeyrac’s lungs at the sight, and he is quick to strip to his bedclothes and crawl under the offered blanket.

He has always had a soft spot for Prouvaire, Courfeyrac reflects as the man in question leans over to blow out the singular candle lighting the room.

At first he had assumed it was a protective streak because of the poet’s young age. But Jehan is older now than Courfeyrac had been when they met, and the feelings have grown with him.

“I enjoyed today,” Jehan murmurs in the darkness. Courfeyrac rolls onto his side to face the voice.

“I told you,” his voice hardly above a whisper, “A little light treason, it’s good for the soul.”

He can hear Jehan’s mouth open and close several times without saying anything, and begins to feel like that wasn’t the answer Jehan was hoping to receive.

Eventually, he speaks again. “Do you think Musichetta will let me keep the dress?”

“I’m sure she would.” Courfeyrac can hear R’s words buzzing around his brain. Feeling boldened, he adds “You know you don’t have to be dressed as a woman to kiss me, right?”

He is met with total silence. His eyes try desperately to catch onto something for what feels like hours before a hesitant hand finds his shoulder. It trails up the side of his neck and comes to rest against his cheek.

“Prove it.” Jehan breathes.

So he does.

**Author's Note:**

> A ‘gigot’ is like the giant sleeves you see on Cosette’s wedding dress in the 2012 film (I think). 
> 
> Also, because some might be interested: I headcannon Jehan as being gender-fluid. I don't write canon-era much so this was a tricky thing to try to feel out in the context of the era, and I hope I've done it ok.


End file.
